Crashing
by spearmintcrows
Summary: A drunken Emma Swan passes out on the wrong couch & maybe ends up meeting the right person.
1. prak-tically right

**A/N: first time Ever doing an AU that's not just slightly canon-divergent ! Just rolling with it for now . Hope you enjoy & thanks for reading !**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own any recognisable characters .**

"So I can crash at your place?" Emma slurred into the cell.

"Of course. D'you need me to come pick you up?" August asked.

"Nah, I'm in the neighbourhood. We were at Granny's. Prak-tally 'round the corner." Emma paused. "Prick-ick-tally. _Practically_." She lacked a natural way with words, so her brain kicked into overdrive when she had to talk and be drunk at the same time.

"Oh, God. Okay, Emma. I'll be home in an hour or so. You know how to get in. Be safe!"

The full effect of the alcohol hit her a minute after they hung up. The world blurred into watercolour-soft hues and sharp lights, and while she was beginning to realize maybe seven shots in such a relatively short time was not her shiniest idea, she was definitely enjoying the free Instagram filter she was viewing the world through. And the looming nausea was a small price to pay to celebrate Ruby and Elsa's engagement right.

By the time she ended up in Storybrooke Heights—the apartment complex her best friend lived in—the night had grown cold enough to make her teeth chatter and fingers begin to purple. She went around to the side window August always left inched up, regardless of the season.

It took her a few tries to get a grip, then Emma dragged the window higher, clambering through the opening. The change in altitude, however slight, caused a burst of vertigo that had her catching her boot on the frame and stumbling over the sill.

"Shit shit shit." She chanted as her head glanced the hardwood floor. Then she broke into a fit of giggles despite the hot burst of pain. She had a habit of calling August 'Blockhead' because of a clumsy streak she claimed he only survived due to his head being made out of wood. Clearly she was out to sweep his title from under him with her drunken antics.

Emma crawled across the floor a few feet, the resonant pain in her head weighing her down. She got to her haunches and steadied herself on the wall. August usually left a light on when he went out in the middle of the night, and the unexpected darkness had Emma struggling with the mundane obstacle course made out of the furniture's silhouettes. She took a chance on one of them, bending to sit, catch her breath-and the chair started _screaming._

Or yowling, rather, as it broke apart into two shapes and the smaller, denser one erupted into a flurry of claws.

"Yikes. Sorrysorrysorry. Shhh." Emma said as the shape dissolved back into the darkness, retreating with a series of disgruntled hisses and growls. She wondered when August got a cat.

"You got this, drunk Emma." She rallied herself on, though the words sounded too slow for the fast, hazy world she was navigating.

She finally found her way to the couch, though it certainly wasn't where she remembered it.

She flopped into the plush leather—which should have been coarse fabric? "Damn, Augie. Did you win some HGTV show or something? Why was this not on Facebook?"

Her musings were interrupted by a heavy plop on her shoulder. She stifled a half-laugh, half-scream as the beast made its way to her lap, catching on her long wavy hair and purring furiously when it reached its destination.

"Well hello. I'm sorry I sat on you earlier. I didn't expect the seat cushions to be alive." She trailed her fingers through the critter's fur, and it accepted her offering happily, settling solidly half on her lap and half across her chest. "Friends, then?" Emma had always liked animals. They were much easier to read than people. And even in their deceptions, there was a particular transparency. When the cat assertively butted her hand in response, she smiled.

"Mm, good." She was happy to find the expected afghan on the back of the couch, since everything else was topsy turvy. She pulled it down across her, covering both herself and the cat. "Slumber partyyyyy." She cheered quietly.

She was out in a heartbeat.

The first time she woke up, it was from the stifling heat. Without the afghan, though, she would be too cold.

"What a dilemma Emma." She mumbled blearily. She struggled up from her slumped position, pushing the afghan aside. The cat in her lap made a noise low in its throat in protest, and she absently patted the resultant cat-and-cover lump consolingly. She stripped off her red leather jacket and the lacy camisole underneath, exhaling in relief as cool air graced her skin.

"Better." She murmured, drifting back to sleep.

The second time she woke up, it was to a sharp exclamation and a pair of golden eyes blinking and burning with indignation.

 _"Bloody hell."_


	2. the mourning after

**A/N Thanks for the follows !**

" _Bloody hell."_

The voice belonged to a tall, blue-eyed man. But not the right one.

"Um, hi." Emma said-croaked, really-with eyes narrowed against the harsh morning light. God, her head ached. She flexed her fingers against the blanket, snuggling into it. "You're not one of Auggie's one night stands, are you?" He was wearing a plain white V-neck and…sea-shell print boxers?

"Who the hell is Auggie?" She couldn't pin his accent down—Brit with a twist, maybe. "Wait, no. Who the hell are _you_?"

Emma rolled from her side to her stomach, leaning on her elbows and rubbing her temples. "Can you keep it down, maybe? I think I might be dying. This feels like dying."

"Are you—" The man almost took a step forward, then stopped himself. "You're not hungover, then, are you? Gods. How did you get in here?"

"The window." She replied, in a tone that clearly implied he was less than the gold standard of intelligence. "Ok so if you and August aren't knocking boots or whatever—which is a relief, no offense, because I definitely thought he was going to actually go steady with Merida—then why exactly were you spending the night?"

"You certainly make a lot of assumptions for being the scantily clad intruder in this situation, love." He shook his head, like he couldn't process the words despite being the one speaking them. "The only August I know is the one on the calendar, and this is my apartment."

" _What_?" Emma started to sit up, but the movement made her feel like she was gonna throw-up. It also made the golden-eyed lump of fur at her feet hiss. She palmed her forehead against the pain. "Y'know, that explains the cat, at least. And the new furniture. And why you're not August…" She trailed off, the weight of the situation finally catching up to her, and catching her cheeks ablaze. "You really live here?"

"I think we've well and thoroughly established that, love." The alarm and indignation had long since washed from his face, settling into bemusement. "Do I get to know the name of the mysterious interloper, then?"

"Swan." She shook her head when his brows drew together. "Emma Swan. That's me." Wait until she told August. Of all the dumbass things she'd done while intoxicated, this certainly took all of Ruby and Elsa's future wedding cake. It even beat out when she'd posed as a singing telegram stripper on a dare. She cleared her throat, taking on a confident tone as if there was any way of salvaging an authoritative position now, as she spoke up from the couch. "And you are?"

"Jones. Killian Jones. That's me." He could have been mocking her, but there was a kind crinkling around his eyes that made her feel like all of this was an inside joke.

"So, um. I should probably be going, about, seven hours ago." She committed to sitting up, and made it, but not without wincing and biting her lip.

"I don't know." Killian said, running a hand through his dark hair. She didn't miss the way it stretched the fabric of his shirt, and the ivory slice of stomach the motion revealed. "You've already made yourself quite at home. You might as well stay for a cup of coffee."

"Someone breaks into your house and instead of calling the police you offer them a cup of joe?"

"Somehow I don't think you're capable of executing a heist any time soon. You can barely lift your head without keeling over."

"Fair point." Emma grimaced. Between the pounding headache and the feeling of an unsettled ocean in her stomach, she wasn't sure she could do much of anything.

"Well, then. How about I get the coffee going and you can get dressed." He paused. "You do have…more clothes, don't you?"

She looked down at the black floral lace bra working in tandem with the afghan in her lap to cover her. She still had her black skinnies on under it, thank God. What had she done with her cami and jacket, though? She tried to focus through the gauzy pain. She vaguely recalled waking in the middle of the night.

"Too hot." She murmured out loud.

"Sorry, love, I can't change what nature gave me." Killian said cheekily. "And honestly it'd be a damn shame to."

"Not you." Emma rolled her eyes. "I mean, it was too hot last night. I took my top off and threw it…somewhere." She remembered then, like a vision from another life, tossing her clothes over the back of the couch. She gritted her teeth against the motion, getting to her knees on the sofa and peering over. Her camisole and jacket were strewn carelessly on the floor.

"Thanks a lot, Drunk Emma." She muttered before leaning over the side and straining to grasp the discarded articles with her fingertips. She pulled them closer centimetre by agonizing centimetre before finally hoisting them over. She began to pull her cami over her head, then stopped when she realized Killian was still standing there, idly staring. She quirked an eyebrow.

"Ah, sorry." He said, scratching behind his ear before running a finger along his lips. "I wasn't thinking. It's usually a matter of women taking off their clothes than putting them on. No liberties were meant to be taken."

Before she could deliver any kind of scathing quip, he was out of the room. Shortly she heard cabinets opening and drawers gliding shut. The camisole felt like too little, but putting on the jacket made her feel overdressed compared to Killian.

"What have I gotten myself into?" She let her head bounce against the back of the couch, which led to instant regret. She allowed herself to lay there a moment, appealing to whatever benevolent forces were out there. And then she pulled herself together, stood up, and soldiered on to join a strange man in his kitchen.


End file.
